


With My Heart So Whole

by Sad Cowboy Malone (NobleMalone)



Series: Kîyanaw [5]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Play, Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Body Worship, Chronic Illness, Come Eating, Come Shot, Creampie, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub, Domestic Fluff, Embarrassment Kink, Feminization, Genderplay, Humiliation, I guess!, M/M, Name-Calling, Nipple Play, Painplay, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Fantasy, Slurs, Spoilers, Spoilers for everything, Titty-fucking, brief mentions of anal fisting :), brief mentions of gang bangs?, less smoking than before, possessiveness as a BDSM thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2020-01-04 15:41:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18346667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobleMalone/pseuds/Sad%20Cowboy%20Malone
Summary: It’s still novel, this; the casual, familiar touch, whenever and however he wants, with no worry of prying eyes or gossiping lips. Charles had taken to it easy, especially once Arthur’d been well, but it’d taken Arthur longer to acclimate to their new-found solitude – privacy weren’t something he’d ever had before. The first time Charles had kissed him out in the open, he’d nearly socked the man in the jaw before he’d realize there weren’t no one around to mind what they got up to.---Kîyanaw– Us, inclusive; you and me.





	With My Heart So Whole

**Author's Note:**

> this fic makes use of the slurs queer, invert, bitch, whore, and slut, but is a cheerful, happy fic! please enjoy

Things moved fast after Arthur had returned, Lazarus-like, from Guarma, wheezing and coughing as if he were still breathing the sulfurous air of the hell he’d gone through to find them all.

 

 In the end, it’d been Abigail what spurred them on, and Arthur is sure now that she’d saved all their lives – her and Mrs Grimshaw, God rest her soul.  It was only by her good graces those that’d still been left – John and Jack and Abigail, Tilly and Mary-Beth, Sadie, Charles and Arthur – had been able to sneak away and scatter like the four winds, working under the pretense that if they were gonna be hunted, they might as well make the hunt a challenging one.

 

They’d gone their separate ways under cover of night, and for all Arthur had begged and pleaded and coughed, Charles had not left without him. Instead, he’d hauled Arthur like a ragdoll, thin and weak as he was with the consumption, up into the saddle, wrapped a protective arm around his thin waist, and rode West.

 

The two of them had been well past Strawberry by the time Dutch’s new gang was burning the Heartlands to the ground around themselves.

 

 

 

It’s been near on two years since Arthur’s seen anyone from what he’s coming to think of more and more as 'the old days.’ It’s a little lonesome, up here, north of the border where the air is thin and clean and dry, but the Mounties don’t know Charles Morgan and Arthur Smith from Adam, and it’d’ve been hard to turn down free land when they’d been dirty and desperate for a clean new start.

 

It’s been good for Arthur’s lungs, too, the crisp mountain air and the removal of responsibility that came with being very nearly dead. Charles had even managed to make the eight months of bedrest bearable; Planting orange poppies and marigolds outside Arthur’s bedroom window to give him something to sketch from his bed; lying with him in the sunlight as if the warmth could burn away the disease from his black lungs; reading to him by candlelight when the coughing and wheezing kept them both up late into the night. Arthur’ll never breathe the same again, will never be where he was before this whole terrible mess began, but he is alive and in something like love and that’s all either of them can ask for, in the end.

 

 

 

Arthur’s wiping the sweat from his brow – he’s just finished fixing the gate what Peanut had broke the day before, spooked by a storm –  when Charles, quiet as a breeze, sneaks up behind him, wrapping strong arms around Arthur’s waist and peppering the back of his damp neck with kisses all at once.

 

“Christ! Scared the bejesus outta me, Charles,” Arthur scolds, even as he twists in Charles’s arms to sling his own around Charles’s neck.

 

It’s still novel, this; the casual, familiar touch, whenever and however he wants, with no worry of prying eyes or gossiping lips. Charles had taken to it easy, especially once Arthur’d been well, but it’d taken Arthur longer to acclimate to their new-found solitude – privacy weren’t something he’d ever had before. The first time Charles had kissed him out in the open, he’d nearly socked the man in the jaw before he’d realize there weren’t no one around to mind what they got up to.

 

“You’re back early,” he continues, relishing the way Charles’s hands come to rest on his own narrow hips and the softness of Charles’s hair where it hangs loose at his back. “Thought you was gonna be in town 'til five, at least.”

 

“It’s quarter to seven, _nîwah._ ”

 

“Shit.” He’s still getting used to the way the sun sets late in the summer here, hanging around in the sky all evening like a girl looking for a good time.  “How long you been back, watchin' me work like a dog and not sayin’ a damn thing about it?”

 

 “Two hours, give or take,” Charles laughs, pressing a kiss to Arthur’s forehead to smooth the creases of feigned frustration there. “Maybe I ought to hire some folk.”

 

“Nah, Charles, told you I can handle it, I’m breathing fine, just – “

 

“To beat some sense into you, I mean, _kakêpâtis._ Letting me sneak up on you like this.”

 

The low, sultry way he says it, firm and fond, the way his hands slide up over Arthur’s ribs, down his back to grip his ass and draw him in close, so close he can feel Charles’s belt-buckle press against his hip; it all tells Arthur what kind of mood Charles is in.

 

“Oh.”

 

There’s not a soul around for miles save the two of them, but the thought of being _seen_ , getting caught like this – it sends a little thrill down Arthur’s spine now.

 

“How many, do you think? Four, five big, hard men, come to rough you up while I’m away, teach you a lesson on the importance of home defense?

“One to hold you down, of course, another to shove his cock in that big mouth of yours, shut you up for once.”

 

Charles’s voice is a low murmur, and his lips are warm on the shell of Arthur’s ear, even as it flushes hot with embarrassment. His dick is already hard where it’s pressed against Charles’s thigh.

 

“Two, I think, in your ass,” Charles continues. “I’ve seen the way you fuck yourself, _kiskânak_ , how greedy you are on my fingers. How you beg for more, like you’d take my whole fist if I let you. Two might not even be enough for you.”

 

The thought is dirty and absurd – a whole hand? Who could possibly – but Arthur groans low into the crook of Charles’s neck where he is pressing suckling kisses to the dark, soft skin.

 

“Please.” Sometimes be doesn’t even know what he’s begging Charles for, nowadays – just knows Charles likes when he begs, and knows he likes what Charles gives him in return.

 

Charles laughs, digging his fingers hard into the meat of Arthur’s ass cheeks, as if he means to leave bruises.

 

“Or maybe I just let them tie you up in the barn like a filthy animal and watch them pull a train on you? Twice each, until you’re so loose and come-soaked I _can_ slide my fist right in, all slick and open and leaking for me.”

 

“God, Charles, that’s –“

 

“Elbow deep, like a lady’s evening glove…”

 

“Christ, Charles!” It’s so vulgar, so filthy Arthur can’t help but laugh, too, even as he rolls his hips to press the bulge of his erection insistently up against Charles’s hip; it may be filthy, but maybe Arthur’s filthy, too. “The shit that comes outta your mouth, s'no wonder you keep it shut all the time. You kiss your mama with that nasty mouth’a yours?”

 

“No, just whores.”

 

Before Arthur can protest, Charles is kissing him, slow and unhurried but longing, licking into Arthur’s mouth with that soft, clever tongue in the way that makes him moan with desire.

 

Arthur’s just beginning to calculate the odds that Charles'll let him have it here behind the barn, how convincing an argument he could make from on his knees that no, Peanut and Pumpernickel won’t mind if he sucks Charles off here – they’re goats, for Christ’s sake – when Charles pulls away to instead rest his forehead against Arthur’s, tenderly.

 

“I was thinking, _nîwah_ –“

 

“Uh-oh, that ain’t good.”

 

That earns Arthur a playful smack on the ass – it doesn’t sting through the thick denim of his jeans, but he wishes it did.

 

“I _was_ thinking,” Charles says again, pointedly, “that tonight we could try, you know, me… letting me inside you. For real, this time, the whole thing. If you want to.”

 

Arthur has wanted to for as long as he’s known Charles, has been waiting nearly three years for the blessed moment he would finally, _finally_ be allowed to sit on Charles’s cock and take it, all of it.

 

Things’d moved too fast after the bad bank job in Saint Denis for them to do any more than they had the night before at the invert's hotel; even after things had calmed down, Arthur’d been too sick to do much more than let Charles jerk him off slow and patient while he’d been on bedrest. It’d taken another six months after that to get strong again, strong enough for Charles to finally agree that maybe they could fuck proper again, move on from the cautious heavy-petting to something more satisfying.

 

When Charles’d pushed a single greased finger into Arthur’s asshole for that second first time, Arthur’d been tight as a virgin again – to his own chagrin, and to Charles’s perverse delight.

 

“I’m so lucky,” he’d cooed in Arthur’s ear as he’d fucked Arthur on his calloused finger, maddeningly slow. “I get to ruin you all over again. Maybe I’ll never fuck you, keep you tight and desperate. Mint condition.”

 

It’s been six months of teasing and taunting like that, of licking and sucking and riding Charles’s fingers in increasing number and intensity, of getting off good again and again but never getting the one god damned thing what kept him from up and dying at any point between Guarma and now.  

 

 

 

“Say it, Charles,” Arthur says now, taking Charles’s big hand and guiding it down to feel where Arthur is hard in his trousers, holds it there so he can gently grind against Charles’s palm.

 

The sound Charles makes, a little, stunted gasp like he hadn’t expected Arthur to want it so bad, is a precious thing, and his voice is a low rumble when he says, dark eyes sparkling and intense;

“I’m going to fuck you, _nîwah_. Let me fuck you.”

 

Maybe it’s excitement, or maybe it’s the way he’s humping against Charles’s hand a little too enthusiastically, as if he might be able to sneak one off here and now, but all he can manage is a soft, certain “Sure. Yeah, sure.”

 

But Charles is smart, too smart for his own good; he pulls away then, out of reach, and glances out to the horizon, casually adjusting himself in his pants. He runs his hand over where his cock is, almost absentmindedly, draws Arthur’s attention to where it makes a stark impression in Charles’s jeans, and the tease is all at once infuriating and arousing.

 

“Great,” Charles says then, and he’d sound sincere to anyone who doesn’t know him the way Arthur does. “After dinner, then. You don’t mind waiting, right, _kiskânak_?”

 

 

Dinner is a stew of beans and tomatoes and ground venison chuck from Charles’s most recent hunt, and it’s bland, but not unpleasant. The same can’t be said for the bread, however, which is so dense from Arthur’s overkneading that not even the fresh goat butter they’d churned two days before can save it; but ain’t like Arthur’d ever claimed to be a good housewife, so they eat it anyway.

 

They dine in companionable silence, as they do most evenings, just enjoying one another’s quiet company and the solitude that comes with the slow setting of the sun behind the jagged teeth of the Rockies. 

 

“You pick up pencils in town like I asked?” Arthur asks between mouthfuls of dry, heavy bread washed down with warm beer.

 

“’Course. Picked up a bag of flour, too, we can try bread again sometime.” No one but Arthur would notice the hint of a smile on Charles’s lips, the little teasing tone of his voice.

 

“Good man.”

 

After dinner, Charles pumps water to fill the little kitchen basin and wash their dishes – mismatched and chipped china plates generously donated by a nice pair of spinsters in town, two women in their fifties that’d laid their eyes on Charles and Arthur only once before taking them in like their own God given sons, those first few tenuous months. They must’ve seen something familiar in the way Charles had sat by Arthur’s bedside, or how Arthur had reached for Charles to hold him up as he’d swayed, lightheaded and breathless, to help two strange strangers so selflessly.

 

Arthur putters about as Charles does the dishes; for someone who grew up the way he did, he’s taken to the mundane pleasures of home-living exceptionally well, though he still complains at times about the softness of the mattress or the lack of a breeze in the bedroom from time to time.

 

“Mrs MacLeod asked after you at the general today,” says Charles over his shoulder as he dries a dish. He can tell by the smell of burning tobacco and the ragged, wet coughing that Arthur is smoking, the way Charles has asked him not to, but he elects not to mention it today; Arthur nearly never smokes, now, save for when he’s nervous or inconsolably upset.

 

“What for?” Arthur wheezes, and the sound of it makes Charles’s heart clench up tight as Arthur’s lungs.

 

He sets down the dish and goes to where Arthur is seated at the table, idly doodling in his journal. The page is covered in sketches of Charles’s broad shoulders and the way his hair cascades down his back – Arthur’s paid special attention to capturing the way Charles’s jeans fit his ass.

 

“Said she had a difficult colt needs breaking.”

 He takes the cigarette from between Arthur’s lips and takes a long, deep drag before he stubs it out in the broken teacup they have for an ashtray.

“Also said her daughter’s coming into town next month. Thirty-two, never married, fine cook and housekeeper. Still got a good few childbearing years left, she says.”

 

Arthur laughs hard enough to have him gasping for air; when Charles rubs a soothing hand over his shoulders, he leans into the touch and it helps to open up his chest, gets him to focus on taking in oxygen.

 

“You shouldn’t be smoking.”

 

“I know.”

He takes Charles’s hand from where it’s rested on his shoulder, squeezes it tight and runs a thumb over the dry, cracked knuckles before pressing a gentle kiss to each one.

“You ask her if her daughter'd mind her new husband being queerer than a three-dollar bill and worth half as much?”

 

“Oh, come on, you’re worth _at_ _least_ as much as a three-dollar bill.”

Gently, Charles ruffles Arthur’s hair – it’s long now, the way he likes it, real easy to get a handful of and pull, if he wants to.

 

“Maybe she don’t! Figure you'n me, two of us might add up to one full man, we try hard enough.”

 

 Charles _does_ pull then, just a gentle tug on the fistful of hair – that’s all it takes to guide Arthur, still giggling at his own stupid joke, to stand where Charles holds him at arm’s length. Holds just tight enough to keep Arthur’s neck extended, head pulled back so he can’t quite look Charles in the eyes.

 

“Go outside, _monyasis_. Get some fresh air.”

 

Arthur grabs at Charles’s shirt, tries to bring Charles in for a kiss, but Charles’s hand is firm and unyielding; not enough to frighten, but just to thrill in that way that makes Arthur feel like a fox caught in a hunter’s snare, snapping but subdued.

 

“But –“

 

A single sharp tug shuts him up.

 

“ _Later_. Go.”

 

 

 

The sun’s all but set when Arthur figures he’s waited long enough, having read through the paper Charles’d brought from town and having cleared the constricted, choked-up feeling from his lungs. As infuriating as it is, Charles is right; he really oughta quit smoking for good.

 

He finds Charles in the bedroom, sprawled out shirtless atop the covers, fiddling with a needle and thread and one of Arthur’s worn-through winter socks. For all their skills and experience, neither one of them can mend worth a damn and it shows in way he’s mangled the sock nearly beyond recognition.

 

“Thought you might’ve gone and gotten yourself kidnapped again, how quiet you were out there,” Charles says as Arthur sits at the end of the bed, pulling off his boots and tossing them haphazardly to floor; in the morning he’ll trip over them and cuss up a storm, same as nearly every other morning, but he still never puts them away proper.

 

“Weren’t never _kidnapped_ , Charles, just, just taken hostage was all, captive against my will.”

 

“It’s the same thing, _nîwah_.”

 

Arthur’d protest more, save for the fact that Charles has sidled up behind him and is now pulling the collar of Arthur’s soft, stupid, adorable polka-dot chambray shirt away from his neck to press kisses against the skin of his neck where it is soft and untanned. Arthur just huffs out a small, pleased sigh instead.

 

“I like this on you,” Charles murmurs, reaching around Arthur’s broad chest – not as broad as it once was, maybe, but still unequivocally masculine in its shape and sturdiness – to pluck at the buttons one-by-one and spread the shirt wide open to palm at the expanse of his chest.

“I like when you wear my things.”

 

“I like when you shut up and use that horse cock’a yours to fuck me 'til I go blind.”

 

Charles laughs, but doesn’t say anything then; just rolls his eyes and smiles his quiet, tender smile before pressing their lips together to kiss, hot and wet and hungry, and it’s heaven.

 

 

 

Even as they paw at one another, rough and careless like men, Arthur is struck by the softness of it all, the stark contrast of where they are, how they are now with where and how they’d been in ‘the old days.’ The saccharine-sweet, tooth-achingly way they live now, simple and pure, is something he never could have imagined.

 

He’d be a liar if he said it didn’t scare him, how much he loves this new, shared life of theirs, and how easily it could all be snatched away. He’s never had anything truly permanent in his life, and the soft, simple purity of this life makes it feel vulnerable and tenuous.

 

Maybe that’s what makes Arthur crave the sting of Charles’s hand across his cheek, or the filthy, humiliating feeling of being called a dirty cockslut as he gags on the length of him. As if roughness and desperate, frantic fondling can weave their old life with this new one, enmeshing the vulnerability of their life now with that familiar, impenetrable feeling of _being_ the danger from before.

 

Or maybe he just likes the way it makes his cock hard enough to pound nails and how Charles loses the stoic, silent side of himself in it.

 

 

 

Charles has him by the hair again, head pulled back so he can bite unapologetically at the sensitive skin of Arthur’s neck, leaving a ring of orchid-dark bruises in the wake of his soft, full lips; plants them like flowers just high enough that the collar of a shirt won’t hide them, so he’ll be able to see where his mouth has been every time he turns Arthur’s way.

 

“C'mon Charles, please,” Arthur gasps, the bulge of his erection pressed up against the firmness of Charles’s stomach, a hand tangled in long, dark hair to keep Charles mouth against his skin. “How long're you gonna make me wait? _Please._ ”

 

He can feel Charles smile against his skin, knows that Charles has some wicked plan up his sleeve just by that smile and the small, soft hum Charles makes against his skin; still, he isn’t expecting it when Charles, swift and sudden, pushes him and sends Arthur sprawling on his back on the mattress.

 

“As long as I want, _nîwah_. Now take off your clothes.”

 

When Arthur hurries to obey, sitting up work on the buckle of his belt, Charles pushes him supine a second time. It takes a few more aborted tries, Arthur growing more frustrated as Charles’s taunting grin spreads wide across his face, before Arthur gets the message and stays down.

 

He feels silly, lying on his back and gazing up at the ceiling of their little log cabin as he works on the buckle of his belt and the fly of his trousers, Charles just watching, not providing a lick of help. Arthur can feel the heat of a blush rising on his cheeks as Charles watches him lift his hips to scoot his trousers down, then his legs to kick them off completely.

 

“Good,” is all Charles says when Arthur is lying naked and exposed on his back, arousal and that strange, pleasant discomfort of embarrassment from being good in the way Charles makes him good warm on his face.

 

In the calm, patient way that Charles does so many things, he takes Arthur’s hand in his own and presses a dry, soft kiss to the palm of it, dark eyes trained on Arthur’s own until the intensity is so overwhelming that Arthur has to turn, as if he could hide his flushing cheek in his shoulder.

 

“You want it bad, don’t you, _âmômey_?”

His free hand skirts feather-light over Arthur’s hip, brushing against his cock teasingly, and Arthur bites his lip as he nods exuberantly.

 

“Show me,” Charles says, lips soft as a whisper against the palm of Arthur’s hand before he pokes his tongue out to swipe across it, coating Arthur’s palm with his own wet, sticky saliva.

 

When Charles guides Arthur’s wet hand to his own cock, exposed and neglected and leaking on his belly, Arthur feels the familiar clench of arousal tight in his groin; something about using Charles’s saliva to stroke himself off is degrading and possessive, like he’s not even worth the effort. Like he’s good enough to spit on, but not much else.

 

Charles’s big hand on his own guides him through the first few strokes, setting the pace and the pressure, and Arthur can’t help but groan at the sensation of Charles’s silent instruction on how he wants Arthur to touch himself. The _way_ he watches, intense and unashamed, only serves to make Arthur feel all the more humiliated.

 

“If I wanted to, to rub one out, I could'a done it without you,” Arthur complains, even as he lifts his hips to fuck into the tight circle of his own spit-slick fist; something about the watching, the knowing he’s doing it for Charles’s benefit, makes it feel that much better.

 

The complaint earns him a well-aimed flick of his left nipple, sharp and stinging.

 

“I can go, if you’d like,” Charles teases, smoothing his hands over the expanse of Arthur’s chest. Months of hard work and good eating have brought back the gentle swell of his pectorals, and Charles has taken a perverse delight in pointing out Arthur’s got his tits back any chance he can get. Just last week, he’d had Arthur press the flesh together as best he could, just so Charles could rut against his chest as if he were titty-fucking a busty whore while Arthur blushed down to his navel.

 

Now, Charles takes one mound of muscle in each hand, his big palms enveloping them, to dig his fingers in and knead at the flesh in a way that’s sure to leave bruises.

 

“I could leave you here, maybe tie you down,” he muses as he leans forward to swipe his tongue over Arthur’s peaked left nipple, taking it gently between his teeth, biting just hard enough to send shocks of pleasure-pain down Arthur’s spine and wring a desperate moan from him.

 

“Get you all loose with my mouth and then leave you, ass up like a needy bitch, trussed up for anyone to use.”

 

“Christ, please, just want you –“

 

“Make you wait for it, _kiskânak_ , have you ready for whenever I can finally find the time to get my cock in you, leave you wet and filthy and open for the next time.”

 

He draws back momentarily, as if appraising Arthur like a hog for market; even goes so far as to pretend to thoughtfully weigh Arthur’s right pectoral in his hand, that teasing smile playing at the corners of his lips.

 

“Might need to brand you first, though, make sure everyone knows who these big tits belong to.”

 

“ _Charles_ – “

 

Charles forgoes speaking, then, in favour of outright _sucking_ on Arthur’s nipple, rolling the other one between clever fingers, first pulling and then pinching and twisting until Arthur is shouting; has one fist tight on his own cock, the other twisted in Charles’s long, soft hair, caught between pulling him away and holding him close.

 

If Charles thinks Arthur is gonna last long enough to sit on his cock with the way he’s playing with Arthur’s tits like Arthur is a god damned debutante Charles is trying to get wet, he’s an even bigger dumbass than Arthur himself is.

 

“Charles,” Arthur gasps, eyes squeezed shut as if that’ll somehow ease the pressure building – he’s not even stroking himself now, just holding, his hand gone stupid and still from the feel of it. “ _Charles_.”

 

Charles just hums happily, apparently oblivious to Arthur’s desperation, in spite of the fact he’s got Arthur’s god damn ballsack cradled in one hand, and Arthur _knows_ Charles can feel the way his balls are pulled up tight and ready to go off. But no, he’s feigning ignorance; Charles’s swapped nipples now, laving his tongue over the one he’s already pinched sore, and his mouth feels almost cool on the flesh abused hot and wanting.

 

“Charles, I swear to Christ, I swear, you – you, fuck, you don’t start playing with my asshole this god damned _second_ , I, I, ah, I _will_ go off in your stupid bastard eye and go find a, a fuckin’ – a _fence post_ to sit on, I swear I will!”

 

That startles a laugh out of Charles, and when he finally lifts his head and looks Arthur in the eyes, his own dark eyes are bright and alive the way they always get when he’s making Arthur feel good, as if it were the other way around. His lips and chin are shiny with saliva, and Arthur can feel the hot pressure of Charles’s thick cock pressed against his thigh.

 

But Charles doesn’t say anything, just fixes Arthur with that look, as if he’s a schoolmarm disappointed in Arthur’s lack of manners; Arthur’d believe it, too, if he didn’t know Charles better than that by now.

 

“Please.”

 

Charles just raises an eyebrow; he’s kneading at Arthur’s chest again, squeezing hard in a way Arthur knows is meant to distract him.

 

“Please, _please_ get your cock in me before I shoot my load in your stupid bastard eye.”

 

He chuckles at that, too, and reaches down to squeeze the bulge of his cock where it’s still tucked in his jeans. For all his patience, Charles looks like he might be at the end of his own rope, if the way he palms himself and reaches eagerly for the little jar of Vaseline on the bedside table is any indication.

 

Still, he takes his time unscrewing the cap, using two fingers to scoop out more than enough product to get Arthur slick and wet – always willing to put on a show for Arthur’s benefit.

 

Dutifully, Arthur makes to roll into his stomach – it’s easier that way, figures Charles will want him ass-up and exposed like a bitch in heat – but Charles smacks his flank gently with the back of his hand, as if trying to correct an over-eager colt.

 

“On your back, _nîwah_ ,” he says, his free hand against Arthur’s chest, fingers pressed gently into a freshly-suckled bruise. When he swipes a thumb over Arthur’s overstimulated nipple, they both gasp a little, and Arthur lies down easy after that.

“Want to be able to see the look on your face when I go off inside you.”

 

Gently, Charles positions Arthur, moving his limbs like he’s a child’s plaything; pushes his legs so they’re spread wide and bent at the knees, and it’s new and different and a little frightening. Flat on his back like this, he feels powerless, at Charles’s mercy more than ever, legs open like, like a _woman_ –

 

The low, rumbling groan that escapes him as Charles slides two thick fingers into him all at once is distinctly unwomanly.

 

He’s already relaxed and easy, in spite of his own nerves; Charles has licked him open nearly every day for the last week – must’ve planned it that way – and just last night Arthur’d fucked himself hard and fast on his own fingers before bed, lonesome as he’d been with Charles spending the night in town. It all makes the slick slide easy as anything, and the sound Charles makes is unequivocally aroused, the closest Arthur’s ever heard him get to moaning outright.

 

“ _Nîwah_ , Jesus. Look at that, already...”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You’re so good for me, _sîwanos_. So good.”

 

Charles fucks Arthur on his greased fingers gentle and slow, taking care to get him slick with it; withdraws to run his fingers around the rim of Arthur’s hole before pushing back in, stroking his insides everywhere except where Arthur needs him to be, ignoring that funny little spot inside that sends sparks crackling through his nerves like fireworks.

 

 

 

Finally, _finally_ , after an eternity of gentle probing and pressing, stretching Arthur more than he thinks is strictly necessary – Charles may be big, but he’s not _that_ big – Charles is unbuckling his own belt and unfastening the fly of his trousers to push them down around his thighs. When he takes his cock in hand it is flushed dark and leaking – he slides his hand slow and tantalizing from root to tip with a long, heavy exhale, and slick beads at the tip before being swiped away by Charles’s thumb.

 

For a minute, Charles just sits and strokes himself languidly, as if he could wait forever, content to just watch Arthur squirm under his patient gaze. He looks regal, almost, hair tossed over his shoulder and eyes heavy-lidded with desire, the way an ancient king might survey the body of his concubine; Arthur can’t tear his eyes away, even as he blushes.

 

He’s nervous, sure, has plenty to be nervous about, but arousal and desire have long since eclipsed the anxious pounding of his heart – he trust Charles more than he trusts himself, most days, would bend over backwards just to earn one of those soft, beaming smiles. Loves him, probably, if that’s even something two queers can do; it certainly feels like love.

 

“Well,” Arthur says, voice gruff with mock-frustration, “you gonna fuck it or you just gonna stare at it all day?”

 

Charles laughs, low and breathy, as he shuffles to situate himself between Arthur’s spread legs 'til they’re flush together, skin on skin. Gently, he grasps Arthur’s ankle, lifting Arthur’s left leg to rest on his broad, sturdy shoulder; if Arthur hadn’t felt embarrassingly exposed before, he certainly does now.

 

It’s easy, then, for Charles to use his free hand to guide the head of his cock through the crack of Arthur’s ass, bring it to rest with the tip against his hole, and the hungry way Charles is watching him says enough.

 

“Please, Charles. Please.”

 

The stretch as Charles slides inside him is uncomfortable, but not altogether unpleasant; if there’s one thing Charles has taught him, it’s the pleasure that can be derived from pain. While it’s not there quite yet, the slick slide if him is satisfying and sends heat travelling through Arthur’s body to pool low in his gut.

 

More than anything, it’s the _knowing_ that’s got him breathing heavy; just knowing that it’s Charles, finally inside him, finally fucking him, finally completing whatever strange journey they’d started in another long-gone life.

 

 

 

He’s gasping, fist white-knuckled in the quilt spread beneath them, when Charles apparently bottoms out – his dark eyes are bright and Arthur can feel the current they’ve always shared coursing through the both of them, swears he can feel the pulse of Charles’s cock in his ass keeping time with his own jackrabbit heart.

 

“How – “ Charles’s voice is low and quiet with arousal, and he has to pause to exhale slowly through his nose as if to compose himself. “How’s it feel, _nîwah_?”

 

“Christ, like – like a fuckin’ lumberjack just tried to hide an entire lodge-pole pine up in my asshole.”

 

He’s not sure if the puff of air that makes it out of Charles mouth is a laugh or a gasp.

 

“You good?” Charles asks then.

 

 Almost as soon as Arthur nods, Charles is rolling his hips and sinking what Arthur feels must be another six feet inside to really and truly bring them flush together, Charles finally balls deep inside him.

 

“Oh, Christ.”

 

 

 

The slick makes the slide smooth and easy as Charles begins to move, just minutely, but the drag of his cockhead against Arthur’s insides is strange and wonderful. Arthur thinks, deliriously, he feels like a firefly in this moment; lit up from the inside in gentle, rolling pulses, blinking in time with Charles’s rolling hips.

 

“Jesus, pêpîsis, you’re _tight_ ,” Charles murmurs between kisses to the hairy calf propped on his shoulder, like he can’t keep his mouth from any part of Arthur he can reach, even as he’s moving inside him.

“All that time spent on my fingers like a filthy slut, fucking you open, _licking_ you open. All that begging for it and you’re still so, so tight for me, so _good_ for me.”

 

Charles wraps a hand around Arthur’s hard, desperate cock, stroking it slowly in time with the gentle, sinuous roll of his hips. It coaxes a long, low, desperate sound from somewhere deep in Arthur’s chest; he already feels fucked out and boneless and hungry for it. As full as he feels, as undeniably tight as it is, he wants _more_.

 

“Fuck me, Charles,” he gasps, taking his own cock from Charles’s hand to jerk himself, rough and eager; the way Charles’s eyes go wide and dark watching, how his hips stutter in their steady motion, is telling.

“Fuck me like you own me, fuck me like I’m yours, please, _please_.”

 

“ _Nîwah_.”

 

Charles leans forward then, to brace his hands on either side of Arthur’s broad shoulders to have him pinned, Arthur’s knee up by his ear, nearly, and all but folded in half with the way Charles his holding him. The position makes it easier for Charles to get his tongue in Arthur’s mouth, hot and slick, and when he rolls his hips again, Arthur nearly bites the damn thing off with a startled shout.

 

“Oh, Christ, Charles, right there, right there, oh God, there, fuck, fuck –“

 

The change in angle has Charles slipping deeper into Arthur’s ass, drives his cock against that spot inside that never fails to make Arthur weak-kneed and fuck-drunk once he’s shot his load. The feel of it, pleasure indescribable and intense, though fleeting, has him gasping and desperate with the novel intensity of it all.

 

If he’s ever questioned why what the shit inverts like them two get up to is illegal, he feels now he has his answer; it rightly should be illegal to feel this god damned full, this god damned _good_.

 

“Right there, Charles, please, _please_.”

 

The sound Charles makes is like a strangled, gasping chuckle as he picks up the pace, slowly transitioning from little rolling waves into deeper, quicker, pointed thrusts, aimed at exactly what Arthur needs. It has him moaning outright now, loving the way Charles gasps on every instroke like he can’t believe he’s all the way inside.

 

“Let me, let me,” Charles gasps as he fucks into Arthur, deep and sure now, made a little wild by the burning heat of being inside. “Let me make you come, _nîwah_. Let me, ah, let me watch you go off with my cock inside you, please, _nîwah_ , _nîwah_.”

 

They move together as best they can, tangled around and within one another as they are, and Arthur is only dimly aware of the way his voice has gone breathy and perhaps a little whining, and of the way Charles’s hips knock against the back of his thigh with the carnal slap of skin on skin.

 

Its easy for Charles, with Arthur’s leg still sling over his shoulder, to lean forward as he fucks him and lave a tongue over one of Arthur’s bruised tits, to take one of the raw, sore nipples into his mouth and suck until Arthur is sure he’ll come apart at the seams. The scrape of Charles’s teeth over that nipple and the feel of his big hand squeezing Arthur’s tit reignite the sparking pain that shoots straight to his cock and has his balls drawing up tight and his teeth clenching from he pressure of it all.

 

He shoots off, hard and sudden, over his own stomach then, pulsing through it in time with Charles’s well-aimed thrusts, and he feels like Charles truly is fucking it out of him; just when he thinks he’s finally finished, Charles will hit that spot again and he’ll convulse, shooting another streak of jism over his still stroking fist.

 

Charles doesn’t skip a single beat through Arthur’s whole overwhelming orgasm, even as Arthur squeezes tight and blinding around him and spills messy and moaning over the both of them.

 

Once Arthur is finished, fucked boneless and loose and babbling, Charles rises; one arm wrapped around Arthur’s limp leg to give leverage, eyes trained on the man beneath him, come-soaked and satiated, with the aftershocks of orgasm still trembling through him as Charles fucks into him hard and fast, focused now on his own satisfaction.

 

“C’mon, Charles,” Arthur gasps, running a hand through the spend on his stomach, playing in it the way he knows Charles loves. “Come in me, Charles, fuck, soak me with it, wanna feel you blow your god damned load inside me, get me all sticky and wet with it, coat my guts with it.

“Make me yours, _please_. Yours, your slut, your bitch, your stupid whore wife, please, your wife.”

 

Arthur glides his hand up over his sticky stomach, runs his come-soaked hand over the bruised, swollen mess of his tits. When he brings his hand up to his mouth to lick his own seed from his fingers, Charles curses low under his breath and finally goes off in the tight heat of Arthur’s ass with a low, rumbling groan.

 

As he’s coming, the roll of his hips becoming long, slow strokes once more, Charles reaches down to where they’re joined, just to feel the way Arthur is stretched wide around him – his seed is already leaking out, even as he continues the gentle rocking of his hips, spurred on by the ragged ends of orgasm.

 

“Fuck, _nîwah_.”

 

When he’s finally spent and finished, sure Arthur’s tight ass as drawn everything from him, Charles collapses indelicately into the mess on Arthur’s stomach, covering him like a blanket and burying his face Arthur’s neck to moan and kiss his way through the aftershocks.

 

Arthur goes entirely limp then, drops his legs to lie there, Charles on top of him and still inside him – God, still inside him, _came_ inside him, finally. He never wants Charles to pull out, never wants to move from where they are now, happy and satiated and joined together in a perfect breathless circuit. He’s wanted this so bad for so long, he’s not ready for it to be over just yet.

 

Charles must feel the same, if the way he’s still got his hips tucked up against Arthur’s ass even though he’s gone soft and his cock’s nearly slipped out; he’s just pressing quick little kisses to the sensitive skin under Arthur’s ear, murmuring pleasant nonsense and quiet praise.

 

“So good for me, _nîwah_ , you did so good. You’re perfect for me, mine and perfect, _nîwah, nîteh_ , my man, my wife, _nîwah_.”

 

They lie like that, in embrace, Arthur’s fingers tracing the lines of scars he’s long since memorized across Charles’s shoulders, until the weight of Charles on his chest becomes too much and he starts to wheeze, just a little.

 

He tries to stifle a cough, doesn’t want Charles to get up just yet, but a cough is all the impetus Charles needs to pull away, making a face at the sticky mess between them.

 

When Charles gets up to stumble over to the window, let in some fresh, summer evening air to clear Arthur’s lungs and keep the smell of sex from settling in, Arthur makes a funny little noise, a startled gasp like a woman who’s just seen a cock for the first time.

 

“What?” Charles tries not to sound overly concerned, though with Arthur, he rarely isn’t.

 

“J-just feels empty without you, is all,” Arthur stutters. “Can feel you leaking outta me.”

 

Charles draws in a deep breath through his nose, steadying himself; the way the statement hits him low in the gut, even after he’s fucked Arthur to hell and back, makes him feel weak in the knees and has his heart fluttering with fondness.

 

“Maybe I should stick a cork in you, keep it all in there, hm?” Charles teases as he dampens a cloth in the little wash basin on the bureau.

 

The sound Arthur makes is somewhere between a groan and a giggle.

 

“Sure.”

 

When Charles turns to trot back to the bed, Arthur is right where Charles’d left him sprawled out on the bed, eyes closed, jism drying where he’s coated from his nipples down to his thighs. A ring of suckled kiss-marks winds around his throat like a lady’s ribbon, and his tits are mottled red and purple in the shape of Charles’s fingers and mouth. His nipples are still peaked and pink and raw-looking.

 

He looks absolutely debauched, rode hard and put away wet, like a man that’s just fucked his way through an entire county’s worth of wives while the men were away – only Charles will know the truth when those bruises peak above the collar of Arthur’s shirt in the coming days and weeks before they fade, and that secret is more precious and real than any other thing in Charles’s life.

 

“Hey, don’t sleep yet,” Charles says, tossing the wet cloth so it lands with a soggy _slap_ on Arthur’s chest; he jumps, but his eyes stay shut. “You can’t sleep until we’ve got you cleaned up and the bedding changed.”

 

“Alright.”

 

He doesn’t move, even when Charles grabs the washcloth to wipe him down like a sweaty stallion after a rough trail ride.

 

“Look at this,” Charles teases. “Looks like you tried to milk a bull, the mess on you.”

 

“Mm.”

 

“You’re sleeping.”

 

“Ain’t.” Arthur’s voice has the distinct, near unintelligible mumbling tone it always takes on when he’s on the verge of sleep. “Restin’ m’eyes.”

 

By the time Charles has finished rubbing Arthur down as best he can, ineffectually wiping at the jism on his stomach and between his legs – it’s mostly gone, probably good enough – and tugged the filthy, sweat-soak quilt from beneath him, Arthur is dead to the world, flat on his back asleep. Charles doesn’t bother to pull on a pair of trousers before he heads outside for a piss and a cigarette; there’s no one around to see but Peanut and Pumpernickel, and if they aren’t fast asleep, it don’t matter if they see him in the buff, anyway, being goats and all.

 

He figures Arthur is still asleep as he settles into bed beside him, but when he lies down, Arthur is wriggling like a worm to tuck himself up against Charles’s side. Arthur inhales deep, the strong smell of cigarette smoke and sex and sweat, and sighs contentedly as Charles drapes an arm over him, threads his fingers through Arthur’s tangled hair.

 

“Smoke?” Arthur asks the soft skin of Charles’s ribs; it’s a habit they’ve both had trouble breaking, and saying goodbye to the tradition has been doubly difficult.

 

“You shouldn’t.” Arthur’s nearly impossible to say 'no' to, not when he’s soft and pliant like a tamed beast like this.

 

“Probably,” Arthur echoes in response, and then he’s mumbling something so quiet and slurred Charles can’t quite make it out.

 

 

 

When Arthur wakes up in the morning, he'll find a small braid tucked behind his ear, and he’ll find Charles, still sound asleep beside him.

 

**Author's Note:**

>  _nîwah_ \- my wife  
>  _kakêpâtis_ \- stupid, idiot, moron  
>  _kiskânak_ \- female dog, bitch, derogatory term for women  
>  _monyasis_ \- white boy  
>  _âmômey_ \- honey  
>  _sîwanos_ \- sweet thing  
>  _nîteh_ \- my heart
> 
> for extended author's notes and sources, [see this tumblr post](https://assless-chapstick.tumblr.com/post/183932259593/extended-authors-notes-for-my-heart-so-whole).  
> Feel free to join me on [tunglr](https://assless-chapstick.tumblr.com).
> 
> Title from The Decemberists [12/17/12](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BWU5j7LJM-M).


End file.
